Enternal
by Birds of North Pole
Summary: James was trapped in Silent Hill, forever, perhaps, with no one to accompany him. When his mindless meddling in Brookhaven Hospital stirred a monster long gone, things takes a turn for the worst in butterfly effect. OOC, bondage. Non-con later on in the story
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Not mine.

I've never actually passed, or finished the game. This takes place somewhere after the big fight, but none of the endings occurred. Rated M for the second chapter. Then I might not finish it at all.

Hope you enjoy.

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Brookhaven Hospital

He just woke up from a lucid nightmare.

It was James's first thought when his eyes snapped open to a ceiling free of old brown blood splatters. The sheets he's on smell softly of lavender, it felt clean too. Like back home, when a still sun-kissed and upbeat Mary smiled at him every morning. He had never actually admitted, or believed in true love, but James had it. He wanted to turn his head slightly to the left and watch his wife, place a deep kiss on her clavicle and tell her he was sorry. It would all be forgiven, because Mary was a compassionate woman. Smell the love in her hair, soothed in the slight tickle of the short, auburn mane on his nose. Fill his heart with blazing joy staring into those deep, sparkling eyes.

But he didn't dare look because the feeling would most likely be lost in the cruel winds of the forlorn place when he pushed himself up and stared at the bloodstained sheets. Silent Hill was full of decay and rust, even at this little paradise of his wouldn't escape far from that fact. It was dull in the room with the windows covered with a thick layer of grey dust and soot; there was a ghastly dusk outside anyways, it always had been.

He was sad, crestfallen, but then he always have been. Melancholia, it always gets you in the end it of it all, no matter how far you put those atrocities behind you, the past would just catch up with a gleaming mouth full of sharpened teeth, shredding the scarred flesh that healed with time.

Mary was gone, and James felt… nothing now, it was just a deep, dark void he was unable to fill up with anything at all. There was no more demons after the suicide of his own guilt, his own desire for punishment, they were gone, but he was stuck here. Stuck in a accurse ghost town with nothing else but himself for company. James had considered, and had done, jumping into the big, bottomless crack that separated this hazy town from the rest of the world; he would just found himself awake, palms slick with cold sweat and breath troubled from something he never seemed to be able to recall.

He had screamed himself hoarse, desperately making racket. But nothing worked, he gave up as the small candle flame of hope was snuffed out without remorse. His hands had been tender and bleeding, throat raw from all sounds and he was tired. So tired.

It wasn't supposed to be like this, but then what does that matter now?

He haven't found a thing that kicked in weeks. Hell, maybe even years, and with the lengthy, unwilling fast—there was never any more supplies no matter where he searched— he was still there. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten a decent dinner in a quiet bliss, or not having this, musky dry flavor in his mouth. His stomach didn't respond, he didn't expect it to after this amount of time. Hmm. The intestines of the curious case of James Sunderland are all shriveled up—James imagined so anyways. If a doctor ever found his body, or person, and that's a big if. Most likely he would be swallowed by this town's overwhelming ire and a gaping mouth when he ever passed on.

Feeling resigned to the fate that he would have to get up at some point in time he pushed himself up. Though just how long could he lay there? James made a mental note to try it at some point in time. Immortal without consent, James had decided to make the most out of it, hence his over enthusiastic welcome of death. A tapping drifted from the empty hospital hallway, the melody of the almost toneless music was a soft andante. He turned his numb head slowly toward the sound; this was happening more and more often, a small rapping rhythm here and there throughout his walk in Silent Hill. Never was the cause of the sound ever spotted, but it gave him something to do nonetheless, pointless searching and fumbling through anything possible or incapable of making a noise.

James walked out of the hospital room, and for a moment a clear, saturated picture of the original Brookhaven Hospital flashed before his eyes. The air filled with a superfluous stench of bleach and despair. Death was happening everywhere, James looked at the rushing human nurses that went around or through him. What's the rush? They're going to die anyways, rotting away at their own birth, it was just a matter of time for the decay to complete its work. Minutes, hours, days or years, it didn't matter.

The town was placing its memories in his head; all the tenderness and misery flashed before him. He kept their secret in his countless days to go, like a keeper who silently watched over the world to be, and world passed.

The images passed within his mind like a breeze, the tapping had stopped with it. James scanned his surroundings one more time before he slowly kneeled down, touching the once alabaster tiles, he let the coldness of them wash over him. It was grief, the tears of sorrow that sank into these meaningless stones turned them into something with power but without will. He felt them, the frozen burn they consumed him in, and traced his hands over a superficial scratch. A child's mindless doodling over the floor, it was new, because it parted the now sludgy droplets of vital fluid, lying beside his new found gun. The silvery body was etched with beautiful ornamentation and the handle glazed with azure; in thin calligraphic lines, Latin covered the handle like a coiled and riled up snake, ready to strike.

'_omissa spe, vos, qui hic intretis'_

He found this gun with one gleaming bullet in its current clip, almost like it had been waiting for him. James was inspired, and he thought he might try to take a more… direct approach in his suicidal rush. He had pulled out the safety pen and pressed the hammer back, tipped the cool muzzle slightly downwards against his own pallid flesh— the bullet should travel nicely trough his grey matter. All he regretted was never being able to get a tan before he died, he couldn't have with the chilly fog that concealed Silent Hill, it had even denied the sunshine admission to Toluca Lake where the mist was the thinnest— ironic— and James could sometimes see a streak of light there, but it was never enough.

He was doubtful, but he made a death wish just in case everything actually went right. He also made a bet with himself, if this plan failed like the rest, he gets to slap himself on the back; if it worked, he get a pet on his back. He had fired the beautiful gun, wasted his only ammunition, but he had woken up in the bed again startled by thing unknown.

James absently stroked his green clad back at the reminder.

He looked back down at the randomly waving scratch, he determined that it was made by a sharp object. A big knife, maybe. Like the one the pyramid monsters carried. James almost heard the ghostly whisper of an hideous clamor like untrimmed nail tracing over chalkboard. He followed the line through the maze like hospital; the shadows never flickering to life, the silence was deathly continuous. He stopped, barely avoiding a head-on collision with a brick wall, the paint smelled fresh, and he looked up to examine the barrier closer— these days he nearly never bothered, it's not like he will be going anywhere soon. There was paint on it, an ugly but distracting shade of maroon, it was fresh against its fading background of green and milky white. They were crudely drawn symbols out of proportions, some squeezing against other ones, almost like the painter didn't plan out his next step in the process of painting. Then the painstakingly air-brushed circle in the middle of it all proved that theory wrong in an instant, it had an eye on the top, the black of the eye stared down at James with unspoken yet sacred quality.

The Halo of the Sun.

He had found an old book, spine falling out threateningly, that had presented the symbols of an cult. The yellowed, chipped pages crackled under his touch— such fragile item, and James didn't know how to care for such objects. He ruined the pages he flipped, and he now have no way to verify this pattern with the book; for a moment, a spark of regret flashed in his dull heart, barren of emotions, then it died off.

He remembered this shape, it had caught his eyes for mysterious reasons. James had stared blankly at the pattern for hours at the end, never moving on to the next page and explore what it had to offer. He had, in the end, flip the page, but not before the pattern seared itself in his head.

James Sunderland reached a hand out to trace trough the outer shell of the bright red halo. His hand smooth without callouses and his fingers only skin covering bone touched the rough surface of the bricks. The paint stuck to his sensitive fingertips in an uncomfortable way but he didn't care. It doesn't matter now, nothing does. The pain of memories flashed through his mind, it's all about him. The servant of God. Him. Him. Him and him. He winced slightly at the intense ache but continued his clock-wise touch always ending at the eye, that all knowing eye.

He done that obsessively for many times, every time the town gave him new information, some overlapped his own in a three dimension hologram in his head; all about the history, the future, and the present. He missed a giant, gloved hand reaching for him from the gloom. It grabbed his small, slim wrist and James cried in silence when he was pulled toward it. His vocal cords unused for so long his voice was all but gone. There wasn't much resistance James could offer, he was emaciated from starvation and slow from the lack of danger and out of practice. He was slammed not too gently into a broad chest, cloaked in shades of vermillion and scarlet, the cloth swallowed his figure. James cranked his head up to meet the underside of a rusting dark red helmet and more uneven gasps came out of his mouth. He was locked up in the position, unable to work his muscles loose. The monster of his guilt just held his head up by his neck, one hand still grasping James's wrist in a bruising grasp. The cloth flowed around them and pooled under his levitating feet with seemingly its own life.

_Why?_ Tears of shame and despair in his eyes were swirling with the robes. _Why me again?_

The monster, it only tilted it's head faintly at his thoughts as if it could read them. Maybe it could, but it wouldn't be surprising. He flailed a little to shift into a more comfortable position, it moved with him in a strange dance between the predator and prey, creator and creation. James was reminded of Frankenstein all too often as he expressed his dismay through weak moves on the pyramid head. A light knee in the stomach, a feeble push at the thing's forearm and the creature lifted him into its violent embrace. Air abandoned its place in his lungs and he drew in an audible breath, it tore off his all too big faded jacket with a flick of its powerful hands. He panicked as the tore up clothe chocked off his air and the rigidness in his body returned, pyramid head only draped him over his muscle packed shoulder like the rest of his ritualistic garment.

James didn't bother to run, or struggle. He wasn't going to win, and he hoped for a quick death more than anything. He prayed to God that he would die, but then, when were his prayers ever answered?

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The Latin is a quote from Dante's Divine Comedy 'Abandon all hope, ye all who enter here.'

Thank you for reading(and actually reading author's notes)


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Well, this is my first time writing something like this. If you had read my other story you might find the writing styles different. It is affected by the style of the book I am reading while publishing my own story. (It's Moby Dick actually, I know, lots of WTF moments)

Things I just assumed in the story:

Pyramid head have the intelligence and humor of a man, with the memories of James, he is a part of James's consciousness after all.

Pyramid head would address James sometimes as his creator.

Silent Hill is a sentient being of its (his? her?) own.

How did Pyramid head see through the helmet? Do I really care about physics and anatomy right now in a fanfiction? So just enjoy. Thank you for the favorites and follows.

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Pyramid Pov-ish

He rose from nothing. Does it make him better than the phoenix?

He rose from the nothingness that was the mind of James, long crumbled under the long, insufferable life that Silent Hill granted him. Let live isn't often the most merciful of things, and his creator who filled him with lust, wrath, and tainted with dark slivers of envy was more than ready for the nonexistent coup de grâce from his creation.

_What for?_ He thought with spite and dark mirth, _do you deserve it?_

James didn't struggle, didn't run when he set the small man down to release a ladder from its bindings; lacking any hope he could cling to like a weak straw in a choppy waved, furious ocean there was no reason not to embrace his outcome no matter how bad it may be. Hopelessness, the mental state was like an invisible and lethal cancer, it spreads through them on soundless feet, more deadly than the worst of sicknesses. He held the frail looking man in his hands, each of the ten fingers wrapping separately around a part of James's chest. He felt the heart beating under the ribcage and taunt skin, felt the weight of the body drooping his arms faintly, and the breath that swished unfaltering out of the man's lungs, then in again in an unending cycle of kindling life.

The small thing warily turned his dirty blond head to look at him with bland green eyes. They were ugly, a murky green that vaguely, also most similar to, the drying river reeds; an imperceptibly mustard yellow mixed with aqua, his pupils dilated with obscurity of the forgotten hallway, light bulbs cracked with age and conductor rusty from neglect. James was looking at him, trying to interpret the course of his action, or the lack of it. He hauled the human up the ladder.

His cloak was brittle and water stained, the material seemed to require more care than what pyramid head had — he was annoyed by the frayed edges of the silky robe, and angry at James for resuscitating him in such unfit garment. He missed his apron, it was durable, and he could move freely in it. James did not seem to… what did they say in human idioms? Ah, get the memo. He gripped and wrinkled the loose collar, dirty boots digging into pyramid's head's side; he addressed himself so because that was what his maker had named him, such simple and true label, little crude, but he didn't mind. He had a name, a purpose, and motivation.

And this shirt was extensively bothering him to no end.

James landed with a barely audible 'oof' of breath and he rolled over on the floor painfully, favoring his left side. He did not take the time to judge his surroundings as pyramid head would've liked. All work went to spoil, and he nudged the laying figure with his boot in irked complaint. James looked up at him, the slightest fear in his features, but it gave spark to a tank full of fuel that was the wrenched creativity of the sentient humanoid beast. He dragged the man to a large, steel table used for the ancient morgue, it was sanitary compared to the rest of them— some were even littered with rotting morsels of remains that the staff of Brookhaven had abandoned in their hurry. James was heaved onto the surface of the raised bed with little effort.

He tore off the top half of his robe, the rest of the unsewn, long streaks of cloth held up by a dark belt fastened around his waist, then combing the knotted material into smooth, if not shorter stripes again he circled them around the gurney. He made sure to wrap one on James's head, in the reminder of the amusement that the human provided when robbed of sight. Efficiently restraining his little pet down to the hard bed, he tied the ends off with dead knots; he'll cut them open later if he needed to with his weapon.

Pyramid head pulled back to admire his quick but sure work, drove on with sickened lust and the intention of harm. There were bonds around the man's forearm, hips and chest. James was struggling now, his bony hands flexing and curling as his small hips bucked against the ropes that were once part of pyramid's wear. The gurney shuddered with each attempt and surprisingly, his delicate looking cloth held, or maybe it was just because James was weak and unable to break away from such flimsy bonds.

Whatever it may be, it aroused him to watch this. He had to notice that even starved for so long, James was still beautiful for a man, perhaps he should dress the small thing up as one of the woman in his warped mind. It crossed his mind that James might suffocate to death eventually, but then again, he would never really know the truth, or cared enough. Meanwhile, it would greatly entertain him to do so. With thoughts racing across his head, he crept closer to a lightly panting man again. James turned his head toward his captor with effort, mouth opened to take in breaths and forming silent shapes on each exhale. Little hissing sounds flowed out behind his cracked lips and straight teeth. He was trying to speak but accomplished little. Pyramid head prodded his throat with a saw he grabbed from a nearby table. They used to use the tool to saw open heads in autopsies. Resting the lightly rusted blade just below the man's pale chin in his bored experiment, he watched James swallow with difficulty.

There were thin lines of red trickling down his abnormally white throat in a bright contrast. Pyramid head's tongue reached out of his helmet to touch at the fluid on a strange instinct; James tasted just like the last time he digested the blood, a dark, fiery sensation spreading its fingers and burning at the bottom of his stomach in a pleasing way. He shuddered in excitement when his agile appendage found its way between James's lukewarm lips. The scent of disgust and fear in his captive overloaded his senses; he thrust the tongue deeper in a parody of a kiss, the caverns of the man's mouth was dry but soft, it was a strange delight as he twisted the tentacle like strand of muscle in James's mouth. Curling with the man's shorter tongue as James tried to avoid the exact same appendage.

Pyramid head felt searing pain when the small man decided to clamp down on the grey, discolored tongue. He retracted it jerkily, losing a bit control over the discomfort as James spit out sticky, clear fluid; the red silk covering his eyes also restrained his movement considerably and half of the liquid found its way on the altar-like gurney with silver lines trailing from James's mouth. There was some fight still left in the empty husk of his creator after all, he was wickedly thrilled by the minor challenge, yet provoked at the thought of his prey doing an act defiance against him. Contradicting, just like the human itself, just another choice to waiting be chosen, no right, no wrong, simply grey in its area.

He was filled with all the powers a human could only dream of, but he wasn't damned and chained down with a conscience. Pyramid head entertained the idea of sawing halfway through James's throat and watch him sputter and chock in his own rushing stream of blood. But it was too exaggerated for the elementary matter at hand.

He pressed a hand against the man's angular collarbone instead, felling the rise and fall of another breath— a preparation for death. Pyramid head realized quickly that the action was supposed to anger him, a quiet plan for James's own demise. He laughed to himself at the straight forward and rather foolish idea of James's, then again, his creator haven't always been known for his remarkable scheming. Nobody's perfect, he acknowledged that. The idea tickled him more than anything else, James had, at one point, did something like that trying to fight for his life. When living no longer was such luxury, he wanted death, ironically, with the same idea in mind.

_James, James, James, always wanting the impossible and ridiculous._ He cooed mockingly to the bound man.

It would be very, very fun if he did something that James never pleasantly expected. He wondered how long would the shock and fight last as he helped himself up the gurney. Resting his knees on both sides of the man's head, which was still wet from the saliva and staining the clothes into deeper shades of red. It felt cold on his knees when he applied most of his weight on them, careful not to suffocate the skeletal man with his large frame.

James splayed his fingers and arched upward in a last attempt and meet the demon's crotch in a mishap. Silk wasn't know for their ability to keep out anything from minor air disturbance to racing bullets; the man's warm breath ghost over Pyramid head's half erect cock and he inwardly groaned at the unexpected feeling. Both of them jerked in the opposite direction, James in utter revulsion, Pyramid head in pleasant astonishment. That inspired him, he's died for God knows how long and the feeling of lust ignited the baleful euphoria in him. The same feeling he had before he tore apart female demons with his own hands from joint to joint, intestines spilling out and coiling on the ground in a steaming pile.

But James was no monster, he was the _father_ of them all, the root of much wickedness that demons branched out of. For that special title, the human deserved special attention.

He grabbed James's sandy blond hair, the other hand squeezing the man's cheeks and forcing open his mouth. The tongue ascended into that wonderfully soft orifice again, James gagged in mortification. The man's porcelain bare chest rising and never falling, trying to get air in his lungs when Pyramid head's tongue reached his airway. His legs jerked and kicked, trying to find a solid foot hold on the slippery surface of the steel bed unconsciously. For a moment, Pyramid head could practically see the human's unspoken 'is this how I would go out?' question in the air.

_Oh, you've seen nothing yet. _His tongue extended further down James's throat. He felt the body convulse and twist under him as if the human was being electrocuted; his face was red from rushing blood, nostrils flaring and chocking. Pyramid head's tongue felt the slightly burning acidic sourness; the human stomach was doing what it could do in this situation, which was to retch up what remained in it. He retracted his specialized appendage and the human hungrily filled his lungs with oxygen. The red blush faded away slowly, drawing it's hands back and leaving James face back in the sickly pale it always have been in.

Pathetic creature.

Rustles came from the hallway, something shuffled its clumsy feet. It screeched, the glass splintering sound of a child's last moment that fills one with despair.

Incarnation of fear, is it James's? Pyramid head can't seem to determine. A siren wailed it's long, even call in the distance. It sounded muffled, foggy. A long forgotten call, but Pyramid head looked up curiously. It wasn't quite the shift he knew in his heart, it was... different.

He took his leave.

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Ugh, everything I write turns into an alternate universe thing. Reviews and favorites makes this girl happy!


	3. NOTE

Notes.

Writer's block here.

Please wait patiently for next chapter.

Honestly? I want to delete this story, but too lazy and reluctant to actually do so.


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